Daring Masquerade (32 page)

If only Ross was here to share in the birth of their son, it would be the happiest day of her whole life.

Elsie made her comfortable while Jack and the doctor drank a toast out in the sitting room.

Little Gilbert Ross Calvert slept now, swaddled in soft baby linen and lying in Ross and Eric's rocking cradle. She was pleased that he had dark hair, and both Jack and Mrs. Bates swore he looked the spitting image of Ross as a baby.

Oh, my darling, if only I could let you know straight away that your son has been safely delivered, and Devil's Ridge has an heir.

"Worth every minute of it, my darling," she whispered. "I'd go through it all over again if I had to."

Within ten days she was up, dressed and moving about the house, much to Mrs. Bates' shock.

"I'm all right," she reassured the old lady. "It weakens you lying about in bed for too long."

"My mum had eight and she got up after a couple of days with all the other kids to look after." Elsie backed Harry up.

"Harry is only a little slip of a thing. Lord knows what state her insides are in," Mrs. Bates said.

"My insides are all right. I've got plenty of milk and Gilbert is a good baby. With you two and Jack fussing over him, what do I have to worry about? Do you think Ross would know by now?"

"Andrew promised to get a message through within the next few days. He sounded awfully pleased when I rang him," Elsie said. "He was glad to do something to help, still feels bad about what happened. Kept apologizing. But Jack wasn't happy about us contacting him at all."

"I know. Normally I'd follow his advice, but Andrew could get a message to Ross quickly, which was what I wanted. I'd have gone to Satan himself and made a pact with him, if necessary." Harry waved her arms dramatically. "Did you make a time with the photographer to get some pictures for us to send over?"

"Yes, next Thursday."

"It will be fun. You can have a photo taken Elsie to send to Ted. Jack's even agreed to have a photo taken holding the baby, so Mrs. Bates can come too."

"I don't want my picture taken." The housekeeper sniffed. "You should still be in bed in my opinion. You'll do yourself damage going on the way you are. That baby shouldn't be taken outside in the cold until he's at least a month old."

She didn't tell Mrs. Bates, but little Gilbert had already been carried down to see Hughie at the stables. Jack had eagerly introduced him to Ross' horses and showed him the station that one day would be his.

* * *

France was experiencing its bitterest winter for fifty years when Ross received a message about the safe birth of his son. Thank God, they were both well. If only he could have been there with Harry instead of being in this filthy place.

The roads to the front turned into rivers of mud. Hundreds of men had been lost through trench feet and illness. Stretcher-bearers and soldiers bringing supplies were exhausted after only one trip plodding through the mud. Except for Eric getting killed, this was the lowest point of his life.

His mud-encrusted uniform hung on him, his boots were almost rotting off his feet, and the agony and horror around him became dulled by sheer exhaustion. He tried to save his men as much as possible. Argued continually with higher authorities about useless raids that got men killed, but gained little ground. Some bloody staff officer billeted in a chateau swilling French champagne, ordered them because he thought it might be a good idea.

He opened a bottle of wine he had been hoarding, and with two fellow officers, toasted the baby's health.

"Congratulations, old man," Lieutenant Stevens said. "At least if you get killed, there'll be someone with your blood left."

"I don't intend getting killed now," Ross vowed fiercely. "All I want is to go home to my wife and son, and forget this hell."

"Was Gallipoli bad?" the lieutenant asked.

"Of course, bloody terrible," another officer retorted sharply. "I was there, but nothing like this. What do you think, Ross?"

"Lone Pine was a slaughterhouse, but different to this. The Somme is a grinding sort of carnage without end. The mud and wet almost get you down to the point where you don't care whether you live or die."

"Exactly," one of the others agreed.

"That's why this news has bucked me up. I'm a father. Makes me feel like a new man."

"Excuse me, Captain Calvert." One of the men marched up to him. "There's a Private Ted Farrelly asking about you."

"I don't know any Private Farrelly. Wait! I do know who he is. Harry's friend Elsie, he's her fiancé."

Private Ted Farrelly, when Ross met up with him, was a thin young man wearing glasses.

"Captain Calvert?" He gave a salute, which Ross returned. "I'm Elsie's fiancé. She told me to keep a look out for you in case our paths crossed."

Ross laughed. "Harry asked me to watch out for you, Ted. Whereabouts are you?"

"Forward kitchen. When I heard your lot was here I decided to come up."

"It's a long way in the mud."

"Yeah, I know. Don't know how you put up with it."

"Better sit down in the trench," Ross advised. "You might get your head blown off otherwise."

"I brought you up a couple of things, seeing as how Harry's looking after Elsie so well. The old battle-axe at Littlejohns treated her real mean. Harry was the only one who ever stuck up for her."

A barrage opening up nearby interrupted them for a time. When it ended, Ted reached under his dripping wet coat and pulled out a tin of peaches and a couple of tins of sardines, a container of drinking chocolate and some powdered milk.

"Good grief, I'll have a banquet tonight," Ross exclaimed. "Appropriate since I just received word I have a son."

"Congratulations." Ted went to slap him on the back but must have suddenly remembered he was speaking to an officer and drew back.

"You'll be needing this then." Ted slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small bottle of brandy. "I should have brought you cigars."

"Thanks, but I don't smoke."

"Wait, Captain, one more thing." He pulled out a small brown paper parcel. "Bacon rashers."

"What!"

"A mate of mine swiped it, and the brandy from some staff officer's mess."

"Oh?" Ross felt a momentary twinge of conscience.

"They won't notice, too busy guzzling French champagne. Living on the fat of the land, plotting how to get our troops killed—bastards. Er, if you don't want it, I'll take it back."

"No, I want it, thank you. I wish I didn't know where it came from, but tonight I'm celebrating. I've got a couple of mates sharing my dugout and they won't care where it came from, either. Do you want me to see if I can get you a hot drink?"

"No thanks, I have to get back, took me a couple of hours to get here. There are some stretcher bearer mates of mine collecting wounded. I'll give them a hand."

"I appreciate you bringing this stuff up for me. Hardly the time or place, but if you want a job at Devil's Ridge after the war, there'll be one waiting for you. A nice cottage goes with the position, too."

"Thanks, I might take you up on the offer. Elsie says it's a good place you have up there. She likes it, and she's never been to the country before. I come from a dairy farm in Gippsland, but now I've learnt to cook, I'd like to open up my own restaurant. After the war people will be looking for places to eat out, like they do over here."

"Quite possibly. No reason you couldn't open an establishment in town, and still do some work for me to supplement your income, until the business gets on its feet."

"I'll keep it in mind."

Looking at this young man with the earnest eyes and the determined set to his chin, Ross suspected he would succeed. Provided he could survive winter on the Somme.

* * *

A couple of months after his encounter with Ted, Ross received a thick letter from Harry. He hugged it to his chest, and hurried to his dugout so he could open it and like a miser savor the contents all on his own.

On opening the envelope, several photographs dropped out on to his lap. He scooped them up and scrutinized them. One picture showed the baby lying in Harry's arms. He knew nothing about babies, but he looked a bonny, plump child, not like the pale, half-starved infants he saw here.

Harry smiled, but her eyes were shadowed. So lovely. His heart ached. Now her hair had grown he realized his wife was indeed a beautiful woman. He kissed her face and held the picture against his heart. Another picture showed Jack, proud as punch holding little Gilbert.
You old bugger. You will have him ruined by the time I get home, just like you did with Eric.

He opened Harry's letter and a few tendrils of dark baby hair almost fell out. A separate sheet of paper displayed a tiny brown handprint with a little note underneath.
I mixed some cocoa into a paste and dunked his hand in it.
How small it was, and how clever Harry was to think of it.

My darling Ross,

She wrote in a neat schoolgirl hand.

I hope you heard from Andrew about little Gilbert's birth, just a few days after the 'No' vote for conscription. I didn't have too bad a time of it and we are both fit and well now. Elsie was a great help. The doctor was nice. I thought I would be embarrassed about, well you know, but I wasn't. He said he had delivered dozens of babies. He was fairly old. The young doctor has enlisted in the Medical Corps, thank goodness.

Harry, embarrassed? He found that hard to believe. She was normally so uninhibited. Ah, but only with him. His heart gave a gigantic leap. Wild, reckless Harry drove him to the point of madness sometimes. She shocked him on occasions with her behavior. But he wouldn't change her for anything. He kissed her picture once more. She was special; he was a lucky man. Pity he hadn't realized sooner.

Mrs. Bates' arthritis is bad, she doesn't do anything much. Elsie and I are having a competition to see who can knit the most things for you and Ted. Loser has to do the ironing on their own for a month. My goodness, Ross, I hate ironing, so I am knitting my hardest but I think Elsie will win.

Everything is quiet here, like Jack says, we are just doing the main things; there's only us and Hughie now. Alf is still riding the boundary and Mr. Wu works non-stop in his garden.

They are still taking some timber but are selective in the trees they do chop down, not like you know who, he took everything. The grass has grown back where he burnt it. They use the track, but not as much. Jack planted some fast growing trees on our side of the track to block it off, so it is not really too bad.

Well, my darling, I know you said don't write about the war or politics because the letter might be censored, so I won't. We will have a quiet Christmas, not much to celebrate with you being away, but next year, hopefully, you will be home and we will have the best Christmas ever.

Baby is starting to cry. I am feeding him on demand. I don't care what people say about four-hourly feeds, he knows when he is hungry. Your son has a good pair of lungs, not that he cries much. I can't stand to hear him so I pick him up, that's if I get there before Jack. He spoils him something dreadful, but it is lovely to see them together.

Oh, if only you could come home to us for Christmas, I would never ask for anything else. It would be the best present ever. The doilies you sent are lovely, I used them straight away. It makes you seem closer somehow. Mrs. Bates and Elsie liked their handkerchiefs.

Well, my darling, I must go. Love and kisses from me and little Gilbert
.
Harry.
She had drawn a circle on the bottom of the page. This is where I kissed the letter, she told him. He closed his eyes and touched his mouth to the spot, trying to pretend he was kissing Harry's soft, sweet mouth.

* * *

The third battle for Ypres had begun. The First and Second Australian Divisions marched through the ruins of Ypres in Flanders, and fought their way along the Menin Road ridge. Their ultimate destination was Passchendale.

It had been raining steadily, the front had turned into a sea of mud, criss-crossed with miles of concrete German blockhouses. A German arc of machine gun fire dominated the landscape and the casualties were terrible.

Ross despaired of the carnage ever ending. After one battle another always followed. Men died or were wounded and many simply disappeared into the mud.

Reinforcements came and went, followed by more reinforcements. Few old faces were left now. Increasingly, he feared he might never leave this chamber of horrors and return to Harry. Never get the chance to utter the words, 'I love you.'

How much longer could his luck hold out? He had suffered several minor shrapnel wounds that only required a dressing, nothing serious enough to get him a Blighty leave.

On the morning of the fourth of October, 1917, his unit was sent to Broodseinde Ridge. Forty minutes before the attack, soldiers waiting in the rear a mile behind the line saw white and yellow German flares through the hazy drizzle.

0530 hours. Heavy trench mortars fell on his men as they sheltered in shell holes, and at 0600 hours, the British artillery barrage opened up and he waited. Another attack—more casualties in this endless saga of death and suffering.

White tapes marked the jump off area. When the signal for attack came, he urged his men on.

"Come on, come on."

He stood up and started running. Officers led by example, he remembered from training. The men charged forward now, yelling and screaming.

A line of troops rose from some shell holes a little in front of them, and he suddenly realized they were Germans mounting a counter attack. Too late to do anything but keep on going.

He did not see where the firing came from, but felt a thud, first in one leg then the other. As he sank to his knees, a bullet slammed into his chest. He toppled forward. Soldiers ran over him. Boots pressing into his back forced him deeper into the mud.

This is the end. He would never see Harry again.

He regained consciousness. It was daylight. How long had he been lying out in no-man's land? Groggily, he got to his hands and knees. Pain and exhaustion racked his body. Breathing was agony. The landscape see-sawed. Shell fire echoed in his ears.